


and the sun will rise once more

by Ludovico



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Human, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27177727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludovico/pseuds/Ludovico
Summary: And in the silence, the moment, Francis realised how rare, how truly beautiful it was, that they could exist together, in this little world. How truly beautiful it was, that they needn’t be alone anymore.How two struggling artists help each other.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks Alfie for helping me! And listening to me complain about classic literature.

_September, 1891 - England_

Dawn awoke slowly. Little lamps were glowing as the crickets sung their final hymn; the night's chorus was slowly falling asleep, the stars allowing themselves to be rocked by the slowly moving clouds, the moon swapping its face for a warm glow. Beyond the autumn plains of freshly cut wheat and pumpkins dotted here and there, beyond the grassy fields of placid cows beginning to graze and their red barn even further in the distance, surrounded by the countryside's quaint little sights of nature, he sat, watching the village come to life: Coffee was being brewed, shop doors creaking open, dogs running, vegetables being chopped, eggs were cracked, windows opened, Monday groans as people resigned to yet another week of work.

He, too, seemed to join this ensemble of morning sighs. Arthur loved his job, yes, it was a grand escape from the monotony of his family and their, how to say, goal for him, but it was indeed tiring at times. If he wasn’t running errands for his neighbours, delivering this and that to the nearby town, he was holed up in his little study, his hands ashen with dark ink, scribbling onto the paper so much so and so harshly that he was out often for replacement nibs, the floor by his feet littered with the broken ones. He downed his coffee and headed out the door.

It was barely a second after admiring the sunrise seep across the valley and morning’s calming silence that it was broken by an incredibly loud, haughty laughter. “Mon amour, good morning!” Francis was smiling gleefully. Arthur immediately noticed his bright purple clothes against the subdued green and brown scenery of the village. He was a French lad who’d said he’d shipped himself over in search of work and new scenery, though Arthur didn’t think he meant the ‘countryside nature’ kind of scenery.

He grunted a “morning” back and started loading the cart, Francis merely standing aside to watch. Dozens of summer crops squeezed into his meagre little carriage, only the worn wooden frames to keep them in. The horse was already prepared, geared up and ready, though clearly a bit drowsy from the early start. They were headed to the town a few miles down the road, on an errand for his old neighbour. When Athur had first arrived he housed him, taught him the ropes, and made sure he didn’t make a complete fool of himself being a “blundering city folk”, and so he did the least he could, aiding him by routinely delivering his crops to the market.

“May I join you, mon ami? I was just planning on passing through. Apparently there’s a lovely new shop, and the owner even lovelier, ah, she has beautiful blonde curls or so it is sa-”

“Yes yes, get on,” he grunted.

Francis simply smiled, despite being interrupted and glared at, and gracefully let himself on the cart besides Arthur - to which Arthur, strangely, felt his cheeks warm up at, but promptly ignored it. Everything about him seemed to be like a dance, to the way he pranced about the village down to his bloody bright clothes. He even managed to be unaffected by the bumpy road and the dodgy wheels.

“Can you think about anything other than pretty women, Francis?”

“Hmm…” He pondered on it for a few seconds. “And what do you think about, then?”

 _He had to think about it…_ “Whether or not I’ll starve this winter, mostly,” he replied, bluntly.

“Oh? You have a wealthy family back in the city, do you not?”

“Don’t,” he snapped.

The silence was stifling. Arthur just intently kept his eyes on the road in front of him, gripping at the reins. “I’d rather starve like a dog than go back to that bloody city.”

He felt Francis’ eyes on him, but neither said anything. Truth be told, just sitting with the man in silence was nice. Despite the pub being their dedicated arguing building, they’d known each other for a long time - a couple years now - and sitting beside him, as the sun slowly rolled up the horizon, the soft rocking of the cart, weeks and weeks of work sitting behind him, was lovely, and peaceful.

“Ah well, you’re quite the looker, mon ami, I’m sure if it comes down to it you could be a lovely hooker!”

_Nevermind._

Too exhausted to shout or punch him, Arthur just groaned and muttered some curses under his breath. One day he’d really punch him. He would do it. He’d beat him to a pulp. And he’d shout everything he’d wanted to for the past two years at his bloody French face, and no one would hold him back and tell him to stop drinking, and there’d be no hangover the next morning…

“I’ve never seen you smile so brightly - are you seriously considering it? Haha! Arthur Kirkland, a hooker! Well, if that’s what you truly dream of!”

Arthur just angrily kicked him in the leg. “Oi, shut it.” He was glad the village was tiny and the road was empty. He wouldn’t know how to explain that. And it’s not like Francis would be of much help anyways. Despite his annoyance he was laughing along Francis’ god awful laughter (it sounded strangely like a duck’s cry), as though it were infectious. A hooker, huh… It would certainly get back at his parents…

“You’d want that ey? You bloody Frenchman!”

-

The ride to the town was filled with Francis cracking more awful jokes, a few moments of serenity as they rode along in silence: listening to the groan and squeak of the wheels and the soft crunch of fallen leaves beneath the horse’s hooves, where sometimes Francis would remark at the beauty of a certain tree or flower they passed. Arthur didn’t talk much. He preferred (when they weren’t screaming at each other, half drunk) to sit and listen to the other man rant on about the beautiful colours of the landscape, how it fit so perfectly in a canvas, the works of old painters long gone; what their struggles were, what emotions were reflected in those works of art? Arthur thought it was interesting. How when he saw just a muddle of green, brown, sometimes yellow, Francis seemed to see a land of exquisite colour and potential. Like it was a king’s garden, a palace, a haven. When it got especially silent, when both of them had gotten lost in their own thoughts, Arthur would ask about his past.

“France? Oh, as you know, it was a land of beauty, fine art, fine wine, fine women.” He paused for a second, seemingly to collect his thoughts. “My father was a kind man, and a talented one at that. He had a little yellow room that we weren’t allowed to enter. For days sometimes he’d be there, and my young mind could only imagine what. Ah, one day my curiosity got the better. Young minds, they are told what not to do and they go and do it!”

“Indeed, indeed.”

“Well, I gathered up my little wooden stool, piled it up on some baskets and planks of wood, until I was tall enough to climb up and peek inside the window to his room. It was a sight to behold! Mon cher, even you in all your cynicis-”

“Oi!”

Francis just snorted. “Even in all your cynicism you’d see the beauty in it. Oh how can I describe it properly… I simply cannot. My father’s paintings were beautiful. He seemed to shape our shabby little town as an Eden.”

“People seem to have a place in their hearts for their hometown, no matter how run down or trodden it is. I think that’s lovely.”

“And you?”

“I found a new one - and I, too, love it.”

An hour seemed to have passed. Noticing the smoother road, the more carts passing by and the low, melodic buzz of the townsfolk, Arthur realised they were nearing the town. He’d also snapped out of his thoughts and realised Francis was snoring, asleep, beside him. Now he had a dilemma. To wake him up or leave him prey to the crows or kidnappers?

Out of pity for the birds or kidnappers, he kicked him in the shin. There was a sudden, shrill shout reminiscent of a goose from Francis. Arthur just innocently kept his eyes on the road as the man muttered French obscenities under his breath.

Surrounded by large churches, tight, cramped houses and dozens of brightly coloured stall roofs, the town square was a vivid and lively centre, people of all ages coming from all corners to create a bustling crowd. Even the birds had joined in, coming from the south waters, chattering away loudly in the skies, joining the procession of voices; of the several merchants, their clothes ranging from thin grey cloths to bright red tartan, the children crying and laughing as they chased each other, weaving through the mass of moving people, the preacher in his plain white robes recounting the Bible; his voice in particular seemed louder than the rest.

“Well my old friend, it is time for me to depart!” Hopping off the cart, Francis happily waved goodbye, not even giving him time to reply. What he was even doing in town he didn’t know. _Surely he wasn’t coming here just to get a companion for the evening..._

Rows of brightly coloured flags decorated the bland buildings, bands played merrily, even the central statue, a war hero, had been given a shining red cloak around his shoulders. It was a celebration. A gathering of people from all parts of the country to sell their wares. And yet, even upon looking at the dazzling jewels or the fine silks the various stalls had to offer, he couldn’t keep his mind from leading him to thoughts of Francis. It was even worse when Arthur realised he was probably chatting up a pretty lady he’d come across.

Arthur had to squeeze through, getting closer to strangers than he’d like, to finally reach his designated stall. It was as bright as the rest, sporting orange and yellow colours, and as cramped as the rest, being uncomfortably close to the other merchants. Nonchalantly he set out his stock: the old man’s best harvest. Stacks of glossy apples, plums, oranges, blackberries, golden wheat and baskets of corn, jars upon jars of honeys and jams and whatever other concoctions he could sell.

-

Finally, after an afternoon of bargaining, complaining customers, more bargaining, the town’s commotion had died down, and he was ready to call it a day. He’d even managed to pick up some baked goods. With his hard work sitting neatly in his coin-purse and his stomach full, not even the sight of Francis happily flirting with some pretty ladies could put a damper on his mood. Well, only slightly. Francis, upon seeing him, instantly lit up even more, and practically skipped over.

“Mon cher! How were your business affairs?” His smile was innocent enough, but had a certain coyness to it. Arthur simply held up the bag of coins, grinning.

“Well, I think this hard day of work calls for a few pints, my friend.”

“Indeed, mon ami!”

-

“Wa-wait, hold… hold on.”

The collar of his shirt dug deeply into his neck as he was grabbed and pulled up; it seemed no matter how many times he pathetically raised his hands he was just brutally tossed onto the floor again. He heard a sharp tear of the fabric ripping. There was that squeal of a knife ripped out of its sheath. Everything seemed to be spinning, the lights were too loud, he could taste a thick scent of sweat and blood, another man seemed to have joined in too… A twin…?

“Get the… Get the fffuck off me!” Desperately, he tried to shove the man away. It was futile. His hands weren’t working. A deep, sickening feeling set in his stomach. Tighter was Arthur pulled closer until they were in a strange, rigid embrace. Something sharp, something strikingly cold was piercing the back of his neck. From the heat of the blazing lights and beer running through his veins it was, in a way, welcoming.  
“Now listen here, son.” A harsh, grating voice. Smelt strongly of metal and alcohol. Recognisable. “You’re going to apologise to me, and my buddy, and you’re going to get the fuck out of here, and I’m never, by God, I’ll never see you here again. Ey? How does that sound, sonny?”

His last words were particularly throaty, and all Arthur could do was weakly nod. They were hardly words to him at this point. Finally he felt the grip ceased. He fumbled his way off the floor. Grabbing, something to drag himself up. Or so he assumed, because up and down seemed to be the same right now. He firmly gripped onto a piece of cloth. A shoulder… Arthur looked up, and staring back down at him was Francis’ bloody smug face.

“Bastard…”


	2. Chapter 2

“Goodmorning.”

He found himself staring up at the ceiling of a little yellow room. He recognised it, but it wasn’t his own.

“Don’t shout…”

“I barely spoke, mon ami.”

“Blasted frog…”

Francis laughed at that remark. It was scratchy and painful against his banging head.

“That certainly is bold, seeing as I oversaw your coming home unmurdered!”

“Can you turn the light down?”

“Come again?”

“The… light. It’s too bright.”

“I can’t control the sun, my dear.”

“Useless… I’ll do it…”

“Why don’t you at least drink your tea first?”

Arthur managed to roll himself over, pull himself up - with a lot of grunting and groaning - and lifted the tea to his lips. It was watery. It was practically just hot water. Francis was drinking out of a similar teacup, white ceramic with fine little blue details, grinning like a madman and staring at him the whole time. He just sighed. He didn’t remember much from last night, but it was never good, and he was quite used to ending up in a bed that wasn’t his while the French twat recounted every embarrassing thing he’d done. And he’d vow to never drink again. And he’d be off to the bar that evening with the same French twat.

“Go on then. What did I do to make a fool of myself this time?”

“Ahahaha! Where to begi-”

His memories were suddenly starting to come back. “Ah! The horse! Bloody Nutshake!”

“Eh? N-Nutshake?”

“The horse! The bloody horse! That I rode into town, that old man’s only fucking family! And I’ve up and left him in the streets!”

“Nutshake…” While Francis was pondering at the horse’s strange name, Arthur was desperately trying to haul himself out of bed, run all the way to town, pray the blasted animal hadn’t been stolen or slaughtered, and profusely apologise to his poor neighbour.

“Oh, the little brown, plain one, isn’t it? Had a white nose?”

“Yes yes that's the one...” Arthur just murmured absentmindedly whilst putting on his boots. "...What?"

Francis was smirking even more now, smiling, glowing like a saint. Dramatically, he stood up, and declared he needn't worry, because he had done the adult and responsible thing of riding the cart home and returned it to his lovely elderly neighbour.

“So now that your horse worries are assuaged… would you like to know what we got up to last night?” he said, winking slyly.

The colour drained out of Arthur’s face - and then he promptly lit up, bright red.

-

 _That bloody French twat, he was going to make him go grey at age twenty-three._ To be fair, he’d woken up with his clothes fully intact, so he shouldn’t have worried that much. Arthur had made himself at home, brewing another cup of tea (which he ignored Francis’ offence at, if he was really such a brilliant cook he should be able to make a drinkable cup of tea), and sat himself in the kitchen, writing. Neatly laid out in front of him was his inkwell, a stack of yellowed papers, and an envelope.

“Hm? Writing _une lettre d’amour?_ ” Francis was leaning against the table, gazing his eyes over to where the man was working.

“Yes, a love letter, to the publisher.” He retorted sarcastically. Francis laughed at that, muttering something about how he was always so bitter and sardonic, and elegantly placed himself in the chair opposite Arthur. Scrawled onto the envelope was a name and address, one which Arthur had been obsessively staring at for the past six months. It seemed whenever he signed the final sentence of the final chapter with the full stop, there was always something to change. A chapter needed editing. Words needed changing. Really, he knew he had to accept it would never be perfect, but there was always an itch in the back of his mind. What if the sentence, the word, the paragraph, the one he didn’t change, was the one that got him rejec-

“Do you regularly carry your writing supplies around?” Asked Francis, trying to hide his laugh.

“Wh- Yes. Is that so strange?”

“Strange? Well, perhaps - but that implies something bad. Interesting.”

“I wouldn’t want to have a good idea and then nowhere to write it down, lest I forget. That’s all there is to it, really.”

“Hm… What would you say to a walk, mon ami?”

Arthur finally looked up from his work. “That sounds lovely, _mon ami._ ” Upon the mockery of his _“magnifique accent Français”_ , he stood up, declared Arthur a disgrace for everything he stood for, and promptly started preparing his picnic basket all while complaining under his breath.

“It looks like I’ve found myself a new weapon, _dear friend!_ ”

-  
  
He was patiently waiting at the bottom of the hill when he spotted a bright purple cloak flowing in the breeze. No matter how annoying the man was, Francis was punctual, and had arrived two o’clock on the dot. Arthur had decided to head home first, upon the other man's remark at him smelling like a "rotting corpse in a pub". Skipping along the road, almost tripping at one point, Francis was carrying a little basket of apples along with a red chequered blanket, waving excitedly, to which Arthur smiled back. Even from here he could smell the cheese and the wine.

“Mon cher amour, you are like a white rose blossoming in spring, like the angels dancing in heaven above, oh like a sweet little summer chick-”

Upon seeing Arthur’s impatient expression (alongside that condescending little grin), he cut his description short.

“-You look nice!”

Arthur smiled softly at that, turning away to face the path and hide his warm cheeks, scratching his nose slightly as he kept his eyes on the road ahead. Like the gentleman he was he offered to take the basket, to which Francis gracefully accepted.

“Such beautiful scenery! It’s a shame I didn’t take my easel…” He lowered his voice as he finished his sentence - almost as if it was completed on instinct, or ones from long ago.

“Mmm… you mentioned something about painting, I remember. When you first got here.”

Francis didn’t answer his question immediately; instead opting to pause slightly, before taking a breath and carrying on. “I told you about my time as a painter in France, non?” Arthur nodded, but he carried on. Although he hadn’t been in England long, and his memories of his home country were sometimes painful, he would love to speak of his home.

He spoke of the colours, the bright yellow houses, the canaries chirping in the summer, the fields of sunflowers and wheat, and endless stretch of sweet, golden hills. There were a few faces he spoke of here and there - his poor mother, his poorer father, a glimpse of his little brother - but what stuck with him, and what he would speak of for hours on end, was indeed the landscapes: They were an artist’s dream. He would tell of the sun breaking through the clouds as he readied his paints, his brushes and his easel, climbing through the fields, feeling the morning dew brush against his ankles as the mist began to clear, searching for his inspiration in the landscapes presented before him. It was like nature placed him here, crafted this beauty just for him to recreate on his canvas.  
Encased in the fields was his little sanctuary: weaving through the tall, lanky corn, past the great oak tree and the ample fields, lay a little cocoon. Willow trees hung delicately over the place, their leaves enveloping him in a natural warmth, flickers of sunlight trickling through their leaves. From here, he could see the entire village stretch out before him, as if Heaven had placed it here before him specifically for him. From here, he remarked, you could see the hills cushioning the place, a natural border if you will, the expanse of countryside and the vast, deep forests that stretched for miles beyond.

“It sounds beautiful, Francis.” Arthur noticed he would get lost in the moment upon talking about his village - sometimes, it seemed, he had to collect his thoughts, gazing off into the horizon as he did so, before suddenly starting up again. Though he smiled at the thought of his home, he had not moved for no reason, and his story was often broken, often tinged, with a hint of sadness. But every time he told his story his descriptions seemed a little brighter; he’d go on for a little longer.

“I will take you there, one day, my love.” He turned his head to meet Arthur’s gaze, a small smile painted across his lips. An aching heat in his chest rose as he muttered those words, as he looked at him a little too long, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to look away. For a moment it was just them in the world - and Arthur had never longed so much to touch him, to reach out and pull him into an embrace. The seconds felt like hours as both awkwardly pulled their eyes to the ground, a red tint dyeing their cheeks. It was strange to see Francis so flustered. He figured his hometown meant a lot to him - suddenly spilling his emotions must’ve embarrassed him… or perhaps he was just daring not to think of another reason.  
The stiff silence didn’t last long however, as Francis was quick to jab an insult his way upon seeing him nearly trip over a rock. “Day-drinking is quite ungentlemanly of you, mon ami!” Arthur just kicked him in response, but was grinning to himself.

As they walked up the hill and the path began to fade, the lush, dense grass brushing at their knees, the field awash with the bright midday sun, they felt the sorrows and hardships of their lives clear with the light breeze. Here they could laugh, sing, cry, shout, and it was only for them to see in the open country. Endless plains surrounded them, a few orange trees dotted around, a couple little houses maybe, and the grazing cows and sheep and the short golden stalks of the harvest. A clear sky was slowly drifting above them, to which Arthur pointed out the weather was not _always_ bad, and it did not always rain, contrary to Francis’ constant whining. Finally they reached the top. Francis was gazing out into the countryside, his eyes shining as he looked over the scenery, an unwavering smile drawn on his face. Arthur felt his chest tighten. He ignored it. Instead he focused his attention into laying the blanket out onto the grass.

“You used to paint in the countryside - like this?”

“A long time ago.”

“Oh.”

Francis breathed, let the silence fall for a moment, before continuing. “I couldn’t do it anymore.” Quickly, he changed the subject. “You know, Arthur.”

“Hm?”

Francis was now looking straight at him, his bright smile only slightly dulled. “You tell me all about this village - and I tell you about mine. And yet, you have never told me of your hometown.”

Arthur paused, taking a moment to think. It was not a place he thought of fondly. Grey, dingy, crowded, dusty - it was suffocating. It was a constant roar of noise and ringing and shouting and beating. It was stacks of documents and papers toppling over themselves. It was deadlines and tests flooding his cramped little life. It was being stuck in that house, the walls too loud, the hundreds of certificates hung up on the wall, taunting him, he could feel their smug faces as none of them had his name on them. It was his appalled, shocked parents at his ‘disastrous’ and ‘dreadful’ decision. Failed exams, failed expectations, failed manuscripts…

“Arthur?” He hardly waited for an answer before awkwardly carrying on. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- to bring back any painful memories,” he quietly stammered. Francis almost seemed to reach his hand out to his. Almost. And Arthur almost reached his hand out instinctively. To his disappointment Francis simply grabbed the picnic basket, fumbling around for something. Triumphantly, he pulled out a bottle of wine, and flicking open the lid, downing a mouthful, motioned the bottle to him.

“It’s 3’o clo- Fine.” Sighing, he took the bottle, drinking a hefty amount. The bubbly warmth in his stomach was comforting.

“See that wood over there?”

Francis suddenly looked up. “Hm?” He was pointing at a little patch of woodland in the distance, nestled comfortably between the fields.

“It’s the Bluebell Wood,” he carried on. “Apparently in the spring you can see fairies and the like having tea parties, dancing and singing.”

It took the other man a second to comprehend what he’d said - and then looked at him like he was mad. After the initial shock, he burst out into laughter. He wasn’t sure if it was the story itself or Arthur’s completely serious expression that made him laugh so much, and it only got worse upon seeing the man’s bright red face.

“May-maybe I should take that wine, dear!” He could barely get the words out, still giggling, having to pause to collect his breath again.

Clearing his throat (and reassuring him he was _not_ drunk), Arthur carried on. “It’s beautiful when the bluebells bloom. In the spring, that is. I just, thought you might like to use it... As inspiration.”

Francis smiled, turning to look at him. “Take me to this, this magical wood of yours, and I will take you all the way to _la France!_ ”

-

“Ah!” Francis’ gasp broke Arthur from his thoughts, and he looked over to the man holding up a bright red book. Its gold trimmings stood out, glinting against the sun, and so did the words inscribed on the cover in a similar shade: _‘MACBETH’_ in large, serif writing. Carefully he took it, running his fingers over the letters. It was clearly expensive.

“You mentioned once your birthday - twenty-fourth of October, non? Which, if I recall correctly… Is today!” He practically shouted the last part, with a stupid grin on his face. Arthur had specifically asked for no gifts; it was awkward, annoying, and usually something useless anyway.

“I’m surprised you know the date.”

“I have a calendar, you know!”

“I’m surprised you can afford a calendar.” He replied, bluntly.

Retorting something under his breath about the man’s love, or obsession, with sarcasm, Francis let himself lay against the grass, feeling the afternoon warmth against his skin, smirking smugly, clearly happy with his gift.

Retorting something under his breath about the man’s love, or obsession, with sarcasm, Francis let himself lay against the grass, feeling the afternoon warmth against his skin, smirking smugly, clearly happy with his gift. Although he would never admit it, he felt his spirits rise at the present, and that excited buzz at his fingertips.

“This was foolish, why on earth would you waste your money on such a thing?” Francis could only chuckle at that, staring at Arthur’s ecstatic, glowing face, to which Arthur hastily turned away. That only made him laugh more.

-

It was as Arthur glanced at the sky he realised the evening was well under way, the stars beginning to shine through the pink sky. “Perhaps it is time for us to retire for the evening…” Arthur allowed himself to be lifted up with Francis’ help, taking his hand and pulling himself up. Together they walked down the path, their hands brushing slightly. The night was by now well under way, its fog and bleak wind having settled on the land, but as they walked close, almost stumbling over each other, there was a bright warmth in their chests, a painful warmth. Above them was an opaque, murky sky, a blend of the midnight blue and the faint flickers of grey light as the moon drifted through the clouds. Francis was staring up at the darkness above, a look of wonder and reminiscence in his eyes, strangely bright in the darkness.

“You know, Arthur, I think the stars are much brighter here.”

-

It felt like no time at all before they were in front of Arthur’s door, bidding each other farewell. Francis remarked on the ungentlemanly amount of wine he had drunk, and Arthur in retaliation kicked him in the leg, though both still laughing as they parted ways. The warmth he felt with Francis slowly dissipated, and despite its agonising consequences - consequences he didn’t want to believe, nor think of - he missed it.

The air was as cold as it was outside as Arthur walked in; he’d forgotten to close the windows. The curtains were flailing about wildly, and had knocked over some empty cups, which were now but shattered remains on the floor. What had also been tossed aside, and what he had suddenly remembered, was an envelope. He had recognised that neat, small writing immediately. He hadn’t dared open it. It was but the third one he hadn’t dared open. The rest had been put to their demise as ashes in the hearth, a great fire sparking from their rotten words.

It seemed, no matter how far he went, they were always a few steps behind.

With almost trembling hands he took the letter, hesitantly ripping it open with his paper-knife, glaring at the paper before eventually pulling it from its cage. Just the first sentence dropped a heaviness into his stomach:

_“My dearest,_   
_I hope you are in good health. I heard you made acquaintance with some folk from the village; even partaking in some of their festivities. Perhaps the country air will be good for you after all. What I am indeed writing for is my happiness in informing you of your dear brother’s most recent engagement, to a one lovely woman. A fine young lady, of good connections, a lovely manor in the southern countryside. We would be delighted at your returning and attendance at the manor in a fortnight, for celebration._

_Yours,”_

He didn’t bother to read the signature. It had already been ingrained into his skull. The weight had only gotten heavier, an expanse of grief and guilt surrounding him. How could he possibly present in front of his parents, his family, upon discovering so much here? Arthur could hardly look at the couples passing in the street without… And this would be worse. Sarcasm and pity was dug into those words, and in their written form he could hardly manage, let alone having them spat at him. All the smug faces, his brother’s sharp grin, his generosity far too sweet that it dug a cavity far down his throat, his persistent, grating questions, _“How are your stories coming along, dear brother?”_ , it all left a dull pain in his chest at the mere thought of it. And it only worsened as his eyes finally caught the small, incriminating words scrawled at the bottom of the letter:

_“P.S., While your brother caught you in town he decided not to interrupt your business. Apparently you have found yourself a new friend… a drinking buddy, he retorted. I am very glad you’ve settled.”_

-

Francis felt a sudden wave of loneliness wash over him as he bid Arthur farewell, being alone to face the darkness. Trying not to think of the terrors of the night, he focused on the beauty of the village at night, the warmth of his fireplace back home, how splendid the day was: The wine was still sitting comfortable in his stomach, its slight heat still in his body, the bitter taste still on his tongue, and his chest still aflutter. And that flutter seemed to grow into an anxious weight. It was quickly replaced, however, as his shrill scream at his own footsteps on a stick filled the village. Much to his relief, and perhaps his neighbours’, he quickly came upon his doorstep, but stopped upon the emergence of a figure from the darkness. Only his black silhouette could be seen against the glow of the pub, and was standing outside Francis’ doorstep, seemingly waiting for him.

“Evening, sir.”

“Good evening, monsieur.”

Upon a closer look he had a blazing cigarette in his mouth, his hair a similar fiery red, and a wooden cane under his hand. He was finely dressed, a black three piece suit, and Francis felt a slight awkwardness at his less refined clothes - his coat was long due for some patching up.

The two maintained an uncomfortable silence, with the stranger staring, no, glaring at Francis directly, until finally Francis spoke. “Is everything alright, monsieur? Are you in need of any assistance - lost perhaps?” This small, rural village was certainly not his territory, after all.

“Are you familiar with a one Mr. Arthur Kirkland?”

Francis felt a sudden rush in his veins. “Yes,” he answered. “Quite so.”

“Indeed, I thought so.” The man paused before continuing. “I am his brother - I’m sure you’ve heard something of me, no? Well I would like to preface by saying he is rather… not fond of me.” Francis said nothing. “Despite all his comments that I am sure he’s made, I would have you know I am quite the gentleman, and I care for my dear brother deeply. Now…”

Francis felt a sudden shiver upon his skin as the man leant closer. Smoke surrounded his view, encircling his body, the thick scent upon him. He stayed firmly planted to the floor. Surprisingly, the man just smiled sweetly - sickly sweet - before finishing.

“He hasn’t been responding to my letters. I’m terribly worried… Perhaps they have gotten lost? Would you tell him to write to me? It’s been such a long time since we’ve spoken… But a bird must fly the nest eventually, no?” Again, he smiled sinisterly, before departing into the night.

Though his encounter caused him to forget his troubles, the sickening ache had planted itself in his stomach again, and though his eyes were weary and his limbs barely moved to his command, a restlessness tugged at him. He lit the hearth, listening to the crackle of the flames for a few moments in an attempt to ease his anxiety. But it were as if someone were commanding, ‘Go! Go!’ but he had nowhere to run, and seemingly no reason, either. Francis stared into the blazing red and orange of the fire. It was enticing; for hours he could stare at the wood turning a bright marigold, before it blackened and shrivelled into ash. Flecks of the flame spat out onto the floor. The pit in him grew. Nausea climbed through his throat, his mouth watery, a pulse in his stomach, rapidly, rapidly beating, drumming like the flash of fire before him, a spark of fear, no - sadness? Anxiety? Longing? It pricked at the edges of his eyes and suddenly down his cheeks, his lungs felt full, bursting with air, as if he needed to scream, to cry, he didn’t know. Francis didn’t know.

The floor was cold below him. Before he knew it Francis had submitted to his body, his emotion, and cried out in a fit of rage, sorrow, agony, clutching his sleeve as he felt a weakness surge through him. He was tired. The floor was cold below him. As he felt a final tear escape his eyes he noticed the shoddy paint job he had done on the skirting boards.

-

Although he had no destination, Francis found himself walking briskly, as if his legs were guiding him somewhere. The autumn night was strangely mild, or perhaps the wine from earlier was warming him up; he had ran out in a blind panic without his coat. Where he was going, he didn’t know - he couldn’t even discern his emotions. Though that painful weight still carried him, and he practically dragged himself through the grass, everything had eased. Suddenly realising how long he must’ve been out for - the village was but tiny dots on the horizon - he looked up, and found he found he had been subconsciously walking to the same spot as before; where he and Arthur spent an afternoon. Where everything was peaceful, where his anxiety was quenched, where he could breathe. Rooted at the ground, he stood, staring at that hill. Even here, Francis could feel the afternoon warmth, the soft grass brushing against his legs, the chatter of the village but a mere low buzz as he realised they were out here, alone, free - and how the sun filtered through the trees just right that they shaped beautiful patterns on Arthur’s face, the curve of his nose, the light freckles painted on his cheeks (which he refused to admit were there), how he always sat, when in deep thought - one leg crossed and the other flat out - how his permanent scowl carved into his face seemed to ease when he was thinking, how the light brush of Arthur’s hands against his when they were walking was like a burst of lightness in his body, how when Francis thought of home, he thought of here, anywhere, with Arthur.

And finally, the weight lifted.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Heat rose through his neck as he felt Francis’ eyes intently on him. He focused on grasping his glass. The old wallpaper peeling away. The bricks on the fireplace.

“Please, Arthur.”

“It’s nothing. Really, it isn’t.”

Although he had seemingly no reason to lie - he trusted Francis more than he would ever admit - the words didn’t let themselves escape his lips. Only flashes of the letter, those cursed words, the sharp nib of the pen scratching the paper practically tearing against his skin.

As they sat in solemn silence Francis’ hand slowly made its way into Arthur’s, and despite the sudden touch shooting an electric warmth through his veins, Arthur made no movement in opposition - instead, clutching Francis’ hand tighter.

“Are you… afraid?”

Arthur didn’t reply. Francis continued.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“What does it matter?!”

Even Arthur himself was surprised by his sudden aggression. He loudly stood up, a surge of rage suddenly energising him. Boiling to the brim of his skin, intense at his fingertips as still he clutched the glass firmly.

“Mon cher- Please. Come here,” Francis whispered softly, extending his arms out. He allowed himself to be held in Francis’ arms, burying his face in the crook of Francis’ neck, his long hair tickling Arthur’s nose. He had never felt a warmth like this, a touch like this. And yet, that comforting yet miserable feeling returned, yet again, where he felt entirely weightless and sickly sweet as his heart beat rapidly.

“I don’t- I don’t usually cry. I’m sorry. This is pitiful.”

“No- you’re not. You’re perfect.”

Arthur’s heart lurched. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Is this about… your family? Your brother?” With no reply Francis continued. “Your brother was standing on my doorstep. He asked about you.”

“What… What did he say?”

“He told me you weren’t replying to his letters. Asked me to remind you.”

“That’s it?”

“Mm. That was it.”

“God… That bloody...”

“Shh…”

“I don’t know what to do,” he said finally.

“Arthur…” He turned to look at Francis' tender gaze, suddenly noticing the thumb caressing his cheek, wiping his tears. For a moment they stood in silence, the only sound being the crackling of the hearth, not daring to breath as to do so would shatter this, force them to give in, give in to the feelings filling up their lungs. Not a breath was drawn.

It was Francis who broke the silence. His gaze averted to anything else, finally deciding to stare at the ground meekly. Eventually he whispered, forcing a shaky laughter, “Well, mon ami, what do we do when we have a problem?”

That was it.

“...Drink?” Arthur asked.

Francis grinned cheekily; he was quick to return to his natural cheerfulness. “Indeed!”

-

Quickly they found themselves in the tavern, tucked away in the back corner besides the window and the fireplace, where they always sat. Almost immediately a pint of beer and a bottle of wine had found their way into the pair’s hands. Surrounding them were equally drunk, merry dancers, twirling around their partners, feet clapping against the floorboards, hopping and running and singing and laughing to cheery music.

“Mon Dieu, remember that one time when you danced-”

“Not at all. Not today. No.”

Francis exploded into a rather villainous laughter, slammed his hands down on the table, and shouted, “Oh come, come, come! We haven’t danced in, in a long time!”

“I can barely even walk straigh-Francis!”

Again he found himself in Francis’ arms, but not in the way he’d like; the man had picked him up, dragged him through the crowd of people to the centre of the pub, and declared they were, in fact, the best dancers in all of England. As Arthur allowed himself to be swirled and flung across the floor, his feet barely touching it at times, the music seemed to fade into a hazy buzz, the massive horde of people nothing but a blur of colour and laughter, the only noise he could make out was Francis’ quiet voice against his ear.

“Remember… Francis… when we, when we first met, it was… something like this?”

“Mhm…it was uh- one… one… deux...”

“Two.”

“That’s the bastard…”

“Two years ago.”

“Long time.”

“Indeed.”

Francis pulled him closer; Arthur’s chest tightened. “We danced, mon ami.”

“Yes; we did.”

“It was awful.”

“Nononononono… No… _Y-you_ were awful! Horrendous! D-dis...disgraceful!” Arthur finally blurted out. Francis howled with laughter, and just smiled as Arthur retorted he sounded like a goose.

_He was never going to escape that blasted ache… Not until Francis stopped bloody smiling at him like that - Or, God forbid..._

“Ugh… Why do I feel like this…?”

“What, mon ami?”

“...Nothing.”

Arthur finally released himself from Francis’ embrace, not having any intentions other than to escape the dreadful feeling that was creeping up on him. He shuffled around a bit, stumbling over to the bar for some sense of purpose, before finding himself forcibly redirected to the entrance. The world was slowly spinning, everything had blurred together, and he was far, far too tired to give a shit if he was being kidnapped or something. Something smelt strongly of cheese… Francis? Francis was dragging him along the path… To a... door?

“Where are we….” Arthur asked, wearily. He was exhausted.

“House,” Francis simply replied.

The stairway up was long, thin and seemingly home to its own ecosystem. Stuffy, beer-ridden air felt heavy against his chest as Arthur dodged the array of cobwebs and tried to bat his hands at nothing. It seemed a spiral, a maze, to finally drag himself up to the doorway, clutching onto the railing for dear life as Francis muttered something under his breath… something along the lines of “old man” and “back going to give out.” Who it was directed at he wasn’t sure.

“Well… well… you see I-I... I’m not quite as young… as I used to be.”

“Eh?” Arthur murmured.

“Ugh… Art- Ar- Arth…. Arffffffur… you may need to carry me.”

“I think you’re a bit too dr-cough- dr… dru… dr… if you think I’m… I’m going to fffucking carry youuuuu...”

“Je… Je ne suis pas saoul…. je suis juste… IVRE DE TOI!” Francis shouted, for the entire bloody village to hear.

Arthur grimaced. “Ugh…. That was terrible…”

Eventually they had both climbed to the top, and after fiddling with the keys for a few minutes _(“I swear… the lock... has changed…”)_ Francis managed to let them both in - or, more precisely, let them both collapse onto the floor. It was cold, and he was so, so hot. He could feel the sweat dripping from his skin… Or was it alcohol? Who even cared anymore, really… Arthur was exhausted. Everything was aching. He let himself succumb to the cool floor, allowing the Heavens or some circle of Hell to simply take him.

-

A crash woke him. It was promptly followed by shouting, and that too was followed by another loud voice. The heat of beer still stung his throat. His head was drumming. Again. Everything was a blur. He blinked a few times. Slowly his surroundings started to merge into one, clear image. Francis’ house, he assumed. Most definitely - several bottles of wine were laying next to him.

“I’m never drinking again… Never…”

It was such a common occurrence for him to wake up in the other man’s house that he naturally found himself walking to the kitchen to brew a cup of tea; the place was so precisely mapped out in his head he practically knew it better than his own house. There was, however, one door he had never been through. Its door was ajar.

“Franci-”

The shabby little room was a mess, the only thing not in utter chaos being an easel neatly propped up against a cabinet and a small desk. The man in question was kneeling on the floor, his head against a blank canvas, a paintbrush loosely held in one hand. Red paint had stained his cloak and stuck in his hair. As light spilled into the room he winced at the intensity, and after attempting to haul himself up, settled on now sitting, facing Arthur, and leaning against the easel.

“Bloody hell, you look worse than me.”

“That… is the worst insult you could give anybody…” Arthur could barely laugh at his joke as he breathed it so weakly.

“Come on old chap, I’ll get you something.”

“Wine?”

“You don’t solve a hangover with more alcohol!”

“Wine… isn’t alcohol, mon ami.”

Francis said it so sincerely he couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. In a matter of time he had easily found his way to the cupboard and back, a bottle of vinegar in hand. After practically forcing it down the man’s throat and ignoring a remark about how it was worse than his cooking, Arthur resorted to slumping himself down in a chair, staring at the pitiful pile that Francis was: The man’s tired, panting breaths filled the deathly silence. Eager to distract himself with anything, he turned to the letter placed neatly in the dead centre of the desk; it was the only piece of furniture not covered in chaos. Carefully he ran his hands over the soft paper: this was an intrusion. His heart drummed a rising rhythm against his chest. Francis coughed. His eyes darted back to the letter he held tenderly, and softly, as if his gentle breath would shatter the thing, he lifted the paper from the envelope.

_“Mon cher amour,_

_The past twenty-four months have been the happiest, I daresay, of my life. And they have taught me more than I had ever learnt in my years prior._

_I would hope deeply, so sincerely, that you would accompany me in happiness for the many years to come, as long as I breathe on this Earth, as I would so love to see your sweet smile for the rest of my days…"_

He couldn’t read it. He barely skimmed over the rest of the words, refusing to acknowledge them. It was too late. In a desperate attempt at, he didn’t know what, Arthur grabbed the envelope, turning it over to its back, only to find it completely blank. As the pulse quickened in his heart it ran through his entire body, bitter regret finally setting in his stomach. He shouldn’t care. It was nothing. It was nothing.

“I don’t know what to do, mon cher…” Francis said agitatedly. Arthur, jumping from the sudden intrusion of his deep thought, paused for a moment before answering tentatively. “The… the letter?”

“Letter…? No, I… I can’t… Paint… Or do anything, really.” Francis tried to force a laughter at the end - one which Arthur ignored, kneeling down to his level now, staring at him intensely.

“What on Earth are you talking about, you damned bastard?” Arthur spat.

“I never sold anything… Nothing ever worked.”

“What?”

“Ha, you heard me.”

“So what? You know, Francis, I haven’t sold a damn book! Published a damn thing! And-” Arthur sighed, slumped back beside Francis, the painful reminder of his situation settling in.

“We’re rather similar, aren’t we, Francis?”

“I thought you were trying to make me feel better, mon ami.”

“Shut up, Frog.”

Francis chuckled. “And what are you going to do then, mon ami? You have your book, and I, my art - and we’re both lost!”

“I… need to prove myself, to them, my family, I mean. I can’t fail, Francis. I just… Sometimes it feels like I never will… Never finish it.”

“Arthur Kirkland, you are an awful liar.”

“Excuse me?” Francis turned to him, now beaming, and Arthur’s chest tightened.

“Well, mon ami, you angrily declare I am talking nonsense, say we are similar, and you tell me I am an idiot - a ‘damned bastard’, if I recall - and then you say this, that you can’t do it. Tell me, then…” He grinned coyly. That smug bastard… “Why do you do this to yourself? Are you not in the same situation as I?”

“This is… different.”

“Is it?” Francis’ smile was immediately wiped at the man’s solemn tone. Arthur couldn’t answer immediately. He breathed. And stared into the room before him. “I…”

“You don’t have to-”

“No. I mentioned before… My family.”

“Yes,” Francis replied, softly.

“...What they wanted for me. A clergyman. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t… Well, I didn’t believe for starters. It was all they wanted for me, and I, well, I failed, didn’t I? Oh- Christ…” Arthur found tears on his cheeks. Francis leaned in, closer, his breath warm against Arthur’s skin, his hands gently cupped around his face. For once he didn’t care. He didn’t care about the ache, his family, expectations, rules, any of it. For once, he was here, with Francis - just Francis - Francis, who he loved.

“I just want to prove to them that I can do this.”

_Who he loved._

“Mon cher, I’ve seen you. You can.”

_He couldn’t._

Francis continued. “If only none of that mattered, mon ami- Just… Your family, all their goddam opinions, everything; imagine, where we could just climb the hills of the valley, without a care, where we could just, I don’t know- love. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

“It would be. But that is not where we live, Francis.”

Francis turned solemnly towards him, sad, angry, serious, he couldn’t quite tell, but he smiled that soft smile Arthur loved, where he looked hopeful, and it seemed to spread deep into his chest.

“Here, with you, I feel I am.” Francis muttered, his breath shaky, uncertain almost. He turned away; kept his eyes to the ground below him, not daring to move even slightly. He carried on. “But what does it matter, really? Your… tribe. None of that matters when I’m with you, Arthur, and it- the world- it doesn’t have to be like that. We can… We can be okay, together.”

_“...that you would accompany me in happiness for the many years to come...”_

The letter.

_“Mon cher amour…”_

For a moment, Arthur looked at him so that he dared to mutter the reply Francis so wished for. But it was just a glance, in the end.

“I’m sorry, Francis.”

Arthur gave no other reply. Though he knew exactly what he wanted to say, there was in no way he could muster it. And Francis knew, too, that those words could not be articulated. Sat in an aching, agonising silence, they barely drew a breath, Arthur only moving slightly to-No. Now was not the time. Hesitantly Arthur’s gaze met Francis’, and for a solemn, sweet moment he dared to hope, but knew, gravely, there was no use in feeding that flame. Now was not the time. Perhaps there never would be a time. And that would be that.

Arthur barely drew a murmur; _“In another life, perhaps.”_

-

But it would never just be that.

It never would. It never would. Arthur was going to be ingrained into his mind forever, the man of the beautiful English countryside, the one who he found stumbling through the fields, half drunk, half dressed, and fell in love with. The one who could never give Francis the words he so much desired, or the touch he longed for so, and yet he was to him fire in the winter and loved him so as injustice loved the impoverished, as the Heavens loved cruelty, and as empty hope loved him.

_“And it would always be just that.”_

But he couldn’t bear it. Desperately he clutched his brush - and in an electrifying fit of rage, furiously kicked the easel over, threw his brush across the room, allowing his supplies to topple over as the room descended into further chaos. Curled into as small a ball as possible he cried out, screaming into the floor, until his throat was burning and sore, his breathing wheezy and shaky. _Why? Why?_

In a panic Francis bounded towards the door. Running across the path, he knew exactly what to do - the lake was not far. At the water’s edge he hesitated: tested with one foot, before finally diving in.

Cold water immediately bit at his skin, the icy waters relentless as they froze him to the bone. Murkiness surrounded him. Francis suddenly realised he couldn’t breathe, water filling his throat and lungs, desperately grasping for air above, only to sink down again in a panic as his limbs stopped and his fingers stopped as his mind stopped. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. Quickly-

Air flew through his chest as Francis finally emerged from the water, clutching the riverbank, finally pulling himself out from the water. Dirty, wet, cold, he pitifully trudged back home, having no clue what to do with himself.

Until - Francis knew what he had to do.

-

A blast of cold air bit his skin as Francis hobbled in. His little cupboard of an office was by far the shabbiest room, being drenched in stacks and stacks of papers, books, folders, letters, receipts, photos, all of which had shoved into piles against any available wall and corner. Only the meagre desk pushed tightly against the back wall had any space around it. And even that was just enough to pull out the chair without Francis breaking his back.

Alas, it served its job. A storage room. Hastily, he lit a small candle, giving just enough light to see his own words, and scribbled a signature at the bottom of the yellow paper, holding the table in place with one foot at a leg so it wouldn’t topple over. He skimmed the words, sealed it in an envelope, blew out the candle, and that was that.

Or so it should’ve been. But Francis was quivering at this little note, with the beautiful cursive on the back, its ink still wet, still smelling slightly sweet, his gut wrenching as if it were forcefully pulling him back. Gracing his hands over to trace the letters, their small curves and pointed edges, the quick, sharp underline, he accidentally dipped his thumb in the cold liquid, his black mark now imprinted onto the paper.

“Merde… Cant send this now…” he muttered under his breath.

“Francis? Are you… alright?”

“Arthur.” The other man looked like a startled deer, practically jumping out of his skin at the sight of him. Slowly, Francis backed away towards the desk. Arthur could only stare at his drenched purple coat, his elegant clothes now tainted with mud and the thick scent of dirt and meat and blood: He had shield himself with his arm and even winced slightly at the godawful smell.

“What the bloody hell happened? Did you go for a dive in the sewers?!”

“Ahaha…” Francis managed to cough a sort of laugh out, but the panic in his eyes was like a chased hare; as if a creature was breathing down his neck, fangs to his throat. Although Arthur tried to shuffle forward, holding his breath tightly, he saw the other man inching away, further into the wall, and stopped at a halt. The silence was stiffening. He didn’t know what to do, even at a whisper his words felt too loud, too strong, he felt like he had to calm the pounding in his chest, to tell the wind brushing against the window to ease.

“I… I have to go.”

His words were shaky, as was his body as Francis practically limped out the room. Arthur tried to murmur something to stop him, but it seemed all air had escaped his chest. The sound of heavy footsteps gradually receded into the darkness, until he was left with only himself and his ringing ears.

-

Finally Arthur managed to pull himself together. He closed the window. He sorted the papers on the desk. He closed the drawer. In an attempt to not just be stood silently in the middle of the room, unable to comprehend what had happened.

Finally, he managed to pull himself together.

Grasping onto the doorframe, throwing himself down the stairs, tearing through the crowd, hurling open the door, a blind panic, Arthur just ran down the path, weaving through the shouting of carts and angry passersby, until he finally had to allow himself to stop, his body tossing him against some tree to catch his breath. A sharp pain stabbed at his lungs and his throat as the bitter, stinging night air froze him in place. He was left to blankly stare at the huge expanse above him, watching the clouds sail across the black sea, the moon drifting alongside her stars, slowly swimming through the night…

-

White had enveloped him. It was bright. He closed his eyes. The sky? Grass was beneath him. He was leant against something hard. Rain was falling.

“You ‘right laddie?”

“...Oh. Yes I- Thank you.” In a moment he suddenly remembered the evening prior - Francis. Where was Francis?

“Wait- I, sorry, I need to find someone.”

“Eh?”

“Franc- A blond man. Wavy hair, sort of, long.”

“Oh ye, some ol’ lass mentioned a strange man like that talking to ‘er… Asked about a train station I think.”

-

Rain was slashing his skin, sharp, cold strikes as he desperately ran. His throat was burning, each breath a struggle, but still he forced himself to carry on, to tug through the harsh weather. Nettles stung his ankles as he shoved his way through a bush, the slight warmth from his tears almost comforting in the biting cold. He couldn’t be, surely… It felt an eternity, as if the station were getting further and further away as he ran, until finally he climbed up the wooden steps, nearly falling over onto the platform.

“Arthur-”

“You twit! You bloody idiot! You just ran out on me, to god knows where, in the middle of the bloody night, all- all-!” He had to breathe for a moment, but after a brief collection of his thoughts, he finally just looked the other man in the eyes, unable to say anything. Exhausted, his dignity shattered, he fell to his knees.

“Let me expl-”

“You can’t just leave, Francis.”

“But I can’t stay, can I? What would that amount to?”

A loud, wheezy cry erupted from the silence, a bright red creature emerging from the mist. Smoke billowed from its head, its giant metal legs scratching and screeching against the rails. It came to a halt. Three shots pierced the stillness; the train bell chimed, an announcement of its arrival, and Francis’ departure. Emotionless, the fearsome metal beast stood.

Francis didn’t move. He looked at Arthur once more; waiting.

“Arthur, I can’t stay any longer,” he eventually said, coldly.

“Wait… Please.”

Hope, desperation perhaps, had clutched Francis to the spot, had forced Arthur to lift himself up. Francis’ soft smile, the one he so loved, had been replaced with a stony glare, cutting through his chest. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

“Perhaps… In another life, Arthur.”

“No….”

“I’m sorry.”

“You can’t just… Just leave me in this bloody town! What am I supposed to do! What are you going to do in France! Didn’t you run away?!”

“Arthur-”

“What! You just came, and, and you, I told you everything! I bet you found it brilliant, hilarious, some, some snobby little rich kid-”

“Arth-”

“Fine! Go! I don’t care! Go chase some fucking, some damned pretty lady, I don’t care! Fucking die for all I care!”

“I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Francis was gone. Arthur could do nothing but watch the train leave, leaving in its wake a path of smoke and his own shattered soul. Helplessly he lay on the platform, the dying weeds between his fingers, the damp wood against his skin. He had lost everything, out of fear, his own incompetence - Francis was gone.

-

_January, 1982 - France_

The mud was still the same under his feet, still wet from yesterday’s rain, and even in the darkness he found himself in front of that familiar door. The short, stubby house; the door that never closed properly; the baskets of flowers; the bed of weeds; it was exactly as he had left it. Warily, Francis walked in, as if he were expecting some sort of reckoning or angry God on the other side. No such thing. Just his old room. Canvases were messily thrown around the room, stacked up against the walls and some tossed under the bed. A few half-empty cups were hanging idly on the side. A couple books here and there. Dusty.

A sickness filled his mouth. He couldn’t stay there any longer.

Despite him having no direction, he found himself briskly wandering the streets. Naturally he knew every corner, every alleyway, where muddy roads were thickest, where the rainwater pooled the most. Flashes of his childhood, roaming the streets with a half-broken ball or whatever else he and Gilbert could find. Gilbert’s cocky grin as he won, yet again, because Francis refused to get his clothes dirty. How his father teased him and his god-awful drawing skills. The local tavern which he spent days at, wondering when life would finally take mercy, or perhaps would eventually bring about its final act of mercilessness, to leave him dead on the street.

As the mild night’s wind surrounded him and he found himself walking with no purpose, yet his legs guiding him as if by command, he stopped. He didn’t know where he was going. He had ran out in a blind panic without his coat. A painful weight was dragging him down into the earth below.

He looked up.

Past the messy rows of houses, shops, and taverns, were the hills of the valley. They had long since faded into the night but their shape could just barely be seen in the moon’s glow.

He ignored them; kept his eyes straight on the road ahead. It wasn’t long before he found something that hadn’t slunken away into the night: an old tavern, its meak yellow light spilling out onto the street. The shabby little bar held only one tired looking barkeep, who barely acknowledged his entrance.

“A uh, pint of beer, please. Or just, anything’ll do.”

_Arthur._

The glass was cold in his hand.

_Arthur._

The beer was bitter in his mouth.

_Arthur-_

“Excuse me, monsieur?”

“Huh?”

A rather tall man was looking down upon him, smiling politely. Neatly dressed in a shirt, trousers, and waistcoat adorned with a check pattern, Francis thought he imagined this protruding figure. Immediately Francis noticed his bright green eyes. The ones he loved so dearly, that lit up like the sun rose each morning, who saw the beauty in endless fields and free countryside.

“I’m sorry I- I need to go,” was the only thing Francis could squeak out.

-

Darkness enveloped him. In a desperate attempt at some sense of direction, purpose, some care for him in the universe, he looked above to the stars, to what may perhaps be some benevolent God, some kindness, some warmth; but there was none. All he could do was sit there. Cabbined, cribbed, confined, in this tiny cage, locked in his thoughts; Francis could only quietly sob, careful not to disturb the silence as he harshly bit down on his sleeve, as to not let out even a mere whimper. Shaking from the cold engulfing him with only the slight warmth from his tears he attempted to hug himself tighter with the blanket. He was lost. He was helpless. Desperately he clutched onto anything, anything, pulling his hair, trying not to cry out, in rage, in sadness, he didn’t know. With his head leaning against his knees, curled up against the corner of his bed, Francis wondered when mercy would finally come upon him.

_How rare and beautiful it is, to even exist._

-

_March, 1892_

The pale winter sun was once again climbing up the grey, barely visible among the white clouds. It would rain, again, today. Again, climbed out of bed, picked up a canvas, paints, and tiredly walked out the door. Mist and dew hung around the place, soaking his ankles slightly as he made his same route through town. He missed home. He always did. As per usual Francis made his way into the wild valley, watching the deer run through the grass and the milkmaids work in the fields below; only the occasional chitter of a bird or the crack of a stick brought him out of his thoughts. He was fine. Life was fine.

Again, he found himself drifting towards the path he walked on everyday, the overrun little dirt road with weeds erupting from every crevice. He headed north, as far away from the town as he could get. No one came here; he himself had carved out the path from the many days of walking the same route. Francis kept his eyes on the ground below. Gazing at the sky every so often: but it was simply a blanket of white. It was only at the shrill cry of a bird interrupting his thoughts that he looked up, and, noticing he was now at the peak, looked upon the mighty hill a few fields away. It wasn’t visible from the village. Its vibrant grass had now turned a dull yellowish colour, its summer glow extinguished, looking as dead and dingy as the winter world around him. A single lone, naked tree stood at the very top. He had told Arthur of its beauty. It was pitiful now.

Francis turned, and headed west, abandoning his route.

Though the short stalks of dead corn had tripped him up a dozen times, the nettles and thorns of bushes stinging and prickling, as if nature were forcefully pushing him back, it wasn’t long before he emerged, once again, at the peak. Overlooking the village, the hill was standing far above the others, giving Francis a clear view of the entire valley as it stretched out beyond the horizon. How beautiful it must be with the summer sun dyeing it a brilliant, fiery hue. How the light breeze would blow the long grass, the lush fields barely interrupted with a house or building, how beautiful it looked with Arthur.

But Arthur wasn’t here, and what was laid out before him was not the haven he had remembered, nor the new one he had stumbled across in England. Francis was in this dying, grey town.

_Where was he?_

Francis knew where he was. But he could barely recall, barely had a memory, of how he had spent the past - how long had it been? A month? Two? Five? - few months stuck in this dingy old town.

And finally, the sun broke through the clouds.

Francis managed to breathe properly. Abandoning everything, he picked himself up and ran as quickly as his legs could manage, practically falling down the steep hill as he did so, the cold, biting wind and the wet dew strangely refreshing, his hair a tangled mess, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. In front of him was the rising sun, the golden glow he so loved, the warmth of beer and whiskey sitting in his stomach, the weightlessness in his limbs revitalizing him, finally. Energy and life surged through him. Francis would finally go home. Already was the salty smell of the ocean surrounding him, the fresh autumn valley, the scent of ink and old papers, _Arthur_ \- Finally, Arthur.


	4. Chapter 4

It was all the same. The birds hadn’t stopped singing. The trees were still green. The flower buds were still blooming. The countryside had barely changed, let alone nature change herself, prepare herself, for his return; she cared not for his struggle, nor did she help him as he dragged himself through the valleys back here. Again. Even months later the nettles, though still in their infancy, still stung at his heels, and the wind, apparently still bitter with winter’s cold touch, tore and whipped at his skin. The sun shone despite his anxiety, his lost chance, pitilessly, mercilessly. It was mocking him. Now that he thought about it, it seemed nature did seem to care: it wanted him gone.

His instinct guided him: the roads still curved the same, the hills still rose the same, and as he climbed the same landscape stretched out before him. He could almost hear the rickety wheels against the road, how he had to brace on a particular stretch of bumpy land.

“Ah! Merde!” Jumping out the road, falling into a bed of thorns, he quickly pulled himself up, watching the cart he’d nearly walked face first into carry on down the path. Blood was slowly seeping down his hand, staining his coat sleeves. The red trickled through the fabric. “Fuck, shit, merde, I can’t… I can’t…” He gasped for breath. He was struggling - struggling to breathe. His limbs were stiff as he sunk his head to the ground, groaning a few curses under his breath upon seeing his ruined coat, slowly lifting his hand to wipe his damp cheek. Ultimately, he realised, pitifully sitting on the side of the road, crying to himself, was not going to help him. He tried to wipe his hands on the grass below him, in a fruitless attempt to clean himself up, refusing to even touch his coat as he lifted himself up. It was, indeed, futile. He was covered in mud, his clothes wet with his tears and dirty puddle-water, and he was about to see Arthur - or at least he hoped, god, he hoped - again, like this: a filth. Angrily he dug his nails into his palms, shouting above to any God that could hear him, kicking the water beneath him, digging his heels into the earth in resistance - to what, he didn’t know - until he could cry no more.

“I’m sure God is just busy… Busy…”

-

The night had long since fell by the time Francis arrived at that village. He could hardly remember the walk: the evening had all blurred.

Alas, he was here.

A golden light was spilling from one of the windows. Francis immediately recognised it as the study, and made for the doorway, ignoring the pushing sense at the back of his mind to run, run away - again. With no response from his desperate knocks, he found that the door slowly creaked open. But Arthur wasn’t on the other side; instead, he was just met with the empty, dusty kitchen. Carefully he crept around the room. Although he felt himself drift towards the drawing room, towards where Arthur resided, he found something stopping him - that pulling thought in the back of his mind. He was an intruder here. Though the creak of the floorboards and the warmth of the evening sun, the candles muttering quietly in the silence of the house, the thick scent of old books and ink, everything, was a comfort, was familiar, there was something pulling him away. It was as if the creek of the floorboards was whispering to him to leave - the fire of the sunset, the blaze of the candles a warning, the intimacy of familiarity a ruse, a trap. Again he felt himself almost dragged down. Down, down, down, the pit in his stomach sinking deeper, deeper, deeper…

Quickly, he patted down his coat - no mud, dirt, yes - checked himself over in the reflection of the plate - hadn’t shaved in a few days, but otherwise not bad, he’ll be fine, fine - breathed a moment, and forced himself through the door.

It was not the first time Francis had found Arthur arched tirelessly over his meagre desk, and he, too, knew the effects of the words not writing the way he’d like, they were too short, too long, too thin, too small, insufficient, where the pen seemed insulted at its being forced to write such insolence, where even the wooden desk seemed to reject him as it creaked and moaned in repulse. He seemed to just be gasping for air as he tried to speak, but it seemed words abandoned him too: Arthur was laying on his side, his hand clutching a scrap of paper, his face melting in a pool of deep black, spilt ink. He didn’t seem to care. Sullen and sunken were his eyes as he absentmindedly stared out into the world through the window. He barely noticed Francis’ murmurs, with only his glazed eyes barely moving to meet Francis’ own. It was then, as he had gotten closer, had he nearly tripped on sharp, broken glasses, their contents having spilt and stained the wooden floors. They had left their mark on the other man’s face with a pointed, harsh red cut stricken across his cheek.

“Francis…?” His words were so slow, slurred and barely a breath, barely a murmur, much like a secret whisper. All Francis could do was softly trace the man’s cheek, as if his fingers could wipe away the scar. It was not the first time Francis had found him like this, but it was never… like this. This was different, too different, this was too much. Uncertainty grew as did the weight in his stomach, like sharp needles slowly pinning him down to the floor. Despite the heaviness in his limbs Francis lifted himself up, looping Arthur’s limp arm around his shoulders as he did so.

The little cottage had never felt so wide, so disorientating with its long hallways entangled with yet more doors, the stairway just a looming haze in the distance. A dark haze, a dark mist, almost, seemed to seep through the house, the floorboards seemed to be pulling him back, screeching and rasping so much so he felt like they could collapse, dragging him into the cold earth below. He felt like he was drowning in the deep scent of alcohol. The candles flashed so intensely. Heat was sticking to his skin. His limbs seemed to deny him. Dread was slowly bleeding into his heart. His chest was but a basin for his anxiety, for his suspense, his panic.

Abruptly, he found himself staring at that familiar bedroom. The light blue walls, the scanty bed pushed tight into the corner, the few pieces of furniture he owned. Only a tiny window and his bedside candle gave any light. Delicately he placed Arthur in his bed, taking his hand lightly as he pulled the cold sheets over him. He felt Arthur move slightly - and the other man’s hand tightened around his own.

He had nothing to say. Arthur was smiling.

He slipped a letter into Arthur’s hand, and left.

-

Stained glass surrounded him, a mirage of colour dyeing his skin, a hundred faces looking down on him, their eyes burnt into Arthur’s mind. Red and gold flashes struck his face. He couldn’t bring himself to look. He had nowhere else to go. This was his final destination. A place he had come to despise over the years, a place that was hammered into his skull as his sanctuary, his home, his everything. A place that Arthur was nothing without.

And here he was. He had crawled back. He had nowhere else to go, and so succumbed to his anger, to his instinct he had buried away, lest he end up begging for mercy in his parents' arms.

He felt like he had to run. To, with all his strength, pull himself out the place. It was not a haven. It was no sanctuary. It was chaos, confusion, wholly unworthing of feeding its hubris, oh their pride, their bells ringing deep in his soul, the ringing against his ears for days on end…

Arthur stood up. And he walked. And as it had been before, the black sky was drifting solemnly above him, empty and void. No moon; no stars. No heavenly candles in sorrow or respect. There was nothing.

-

He had been walking for god knows how long. A red blossom was growing beneath the clouds, highlighting their soft ridges and arches as they drifted at a steady pace across the landscape. The fiery glow blanketed the valley, seeping through the billowing yellow hills, painting his face with a crimson glow, his torn and muddied skin highlighted as he merely sat and watched the sunset die. As he felt the grass brush his knees, the little daisies squashed under his feet, the steady evening breeze, the now painful memories of their time together in the fields, where the world melted away and they were alone, together. And it was all gone. Burnt, shrivelled up, merely ash in the hearth. Francis was gone. Yet he had used up all his anger, all his shouting, and he had used up all his sorrow, all his cries and his tears, and what was he to do now? Empty, cold, he stood in this open field, alone, having lost the one thing he loved so dearly.

-

Somehow, he had ended up back in his study. He was holding something cold. He was holding something sharp. Fine, cutting edges were digging into his skin, and in contrast a warmth was dripping from the point. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could make out the words on the label; _“Château Latour '61”._

There was no fight left in him. Too tired to get up, too awake to go to sleep, he lay pitifully staring outside the window, as if salvation were waiting on the other side. He wondered where Francis was; what he was doing. If he had crossed Francis’ mind at all. _He’s probably painting that sunrise, perhaps, as he longed to do so much…_

Footsteps were in the kitchen. He didn’t dare to hope.


End file.
